Clandestine-IsaacHooke-FreeFollowup (25 page)

A decrepit Soviet-era T-55 ambled past. Ethan was a little relieved to see the tank—he was worried the militants might have Abrams and Bradleys, given all the other US military equipment purloined from Iraq. Taking US-made weapons and gear was one thing, but stealing our Abrams and Bradleys, too? Well that would've been sacrilege.
 

Curly Beard halted beside a house, scribbled something on his clipboard, and turned to address the unit.

"Mecca is there," Curly Beard said significantly, pointing to the northeast. "Understood?"

The men nodded solemnly. Curly Beard seemed satisfied with the gravity of their response; he shook Abdullah's hand one last time and left.

The house proved unoccupied, though it was strewn with all manners of personal belongings left behind in the rush by the former occupants to flee. Clothes, photos, newspaper clippings, magazines, furniture. Abandoned memories and lost hopes.

Ethan paused beside a portrait on a desk—a young woman wearing a hijab. Oddly, she reminded him of Alzena.
 

Suleman rudely knocked over the picture so that it lay facedown on the table; he seemed pissed off that he had been forced to look at a strange woman's face.

Ethan moved deeper into the house and chose an inconspicuous, out of the way spot for himself in a hall outside one of the bedrooms.

Shortly thereafter the call for prayer came over the two-way radio, sung by a dulcet-voiced muezzin plucked from the jihadist ranks. The call was sorrowful: it seemed almost as if the singer wept.

Though the unit had passed a mosque on the way, Abdullah ordered everyone to pray in the house. Probably a good idea. Mosques were obvious targets for bombers.

Twenty minutes later an announcement came over the two-way radio, indicating that supper was ready for the units residing in "Section C" of the camp.

Abullah sent Yasiri to retrieve the food, and the youth returned with a canvas bag stuffed full of rice and chopped chicken.

After eating, Ethan returned to the area he'd picked out for himself and sat down. In the bedroom beside him, he saw Harb in one corner, actively engaged on his smartphone, likely using FireChat. That was probably the only place where the thirteen-year-old really felt he belonged. There he had no age, and as far as the other participants knew, he was a seasoned jihadi.

Ethan thought of the smartphone serial numbers he had sent Sam. JSOC was likely operating with the rebels in the area—before he left, William had hinted that Doug was embedded with the Kurds. And if Doug had those serial numbers, he would know precisely
where the mujahadeen of Wolf Company were, courtesy of his Stingray. Though if Sam had indeed passed the serial numbers along, it would have been with the caveat that important operatives were still embedded with the owners of said phones. Doug wouldn't send those coordinates to the bombers.
 

At least, Ethan hoped he wouldn't. Wolf Company was probably out of range of the cellphone-intercepting Stingray anyway.
 

He turned to the side, shielding his own smartphone with his body, and retrieved the USB stick from his backpack. He placed his Quran on the floor nearby, open to a random page for show, then extended the RF antenna on the USB and plugged it into his phone with the adapter. He launched the DIA's encrypted messaging app.

The "members online" screen showed neither William nor Aaron's aliases. Likely they had their phones turned off to save power, though it was also possible they were out of range in Kobane. He wanted to be sure.
 

He stashed the Android and USB stick in his pocket, and then clambered to his feet, making his way through the house.

Abdullah sat by the front door with Fida'a and Suleman. The latter scowled at Ethan's approach.

"Where are you going?" Abdullah said.

Ethan shrugged. "I need some fresh air."

Abdullah laughed. "It is hardly fresh. But go. Return before curfew."

Ethan bowed his head and left.

E
than exchanged "salaams" with the jihadists he saw, and eventually he bumped into Curly Beard. He asked the man where he might find William's or Aaron's unit, giving the names of their respective emirs, and Curly Beard regarded his clipboard.
 

"Yes, both units returned just today." He gave directions to the two houses and sent Ethan on his way.

William's unit was the closer of the two, so Ethan proceeded to that location first. Inside the house he found the entire company asleep on the first floor.
 

The stench of FAN—feet, ass, nuts—was nearly overwhelming. Wrinkling his nose, Ethan stepped over the militants, searching the faces for his friend. The men slept so deeply that no one stirred.
 

He did a double take on one of the dozing fighters. Yes, it was William. Ethan barely recognized his friend. His face was steeped in grime and swollen in several places.

Ethan hesitated. William was probably dead tired and needed the sleep. Still, he might have new orders from Sam. Besides, Ethan wanted to let him know he had arrived.
 

Keeping his distance, Ethan prodded the operative with the butt of his Dragunov. No response. He tried again, harder.

William sat up, scrabbling madly at the rifle.

"Easy, brother," Ethan said in Arabic, conscious of the others in the room. He slid the rifle back over his shoulder.

William blinked wildly a few times, then recognition dawned in his eyes. He exhaled loudly, lying back.
 

"You look like a camel trod over your face," Ethan said.

"Feels about right." William agreed.

"Been in a few fistfights?"

William appeared confused. Then: "Oh. The lumps on my face. That's from the flies. They're everywhere on the front lines. They breed on the corpses."

Ethan wasn't eager to pursue that line of conversation. "Where's our comrade?"

William gave him a look that could best be described as appraising. "You just arrived?"

"I did."

With a sigh, William arose. He stumbled slightly, and Ethan braced him with one arm.

Outside, William walked stiffly through the streets, leading Ethan to a one-story house on an adjacent street.
 

"Our one day off and you have to disturb us like this?" Aaron complained in Arabic when Ethan roused him in a similar manner.

After the three of them had gathered in a small clearing near the house, Ethan said, "Update me."

Aaron scratched the insect welts on his face. "You're lucky you found us. Both our units just got back from four-day rotations on the front. We're only in camp for the one night."

"Four-day rotation?" William told Ethan. "Aaron had it easy. My unit was out there for
six
days. So you're doubly lucky to find the two of us in camp."
 

"Not my fault your unit was pinned," Aaron said.

"What's it like in the city?" Ethan asked.

"Pretty grim," William replied. "Both sides aren't afraid to commit suicide attacks. It's like fighting kamikazes,
alongside
kamikazes. There's just no sanctity for human life whatsoever. And any kaffir, excuse me, civilians, that are caught, well, the Islamic State either shoots them in the back of the head, or if the lucky prisoner happens to be a woman, they distribute her among the troops and gang rape her until she bleeds to death."
 

Ethan cringed. "What's the point of conquering Kobane if there's no one left for them to rule?"

"That's the thing: they don't care. They'll use the city as a garrison once they take it. Mostly they want Kobane because of its proximity to the border. That and they really hate Kurds. The religion they follow—Yazidism—well, it makes them the infidels among the infidels, apparently. And then there's the political angle. The emirs thought it would be easy for their mujahadeen to take the city. The Kurds were ill-prepared and ill-equipped, they said. When it turned out that conquering Kobane was far from easy, the emirs should have turned back. The city isn't all that important strategically. But shortly after the attack, the Obama administration began its airstrikes against Kobane. So now the Islamic State wants to make the US look bad by showing that even with air dominance, the Americans can't stop IS from conquering this small, out-of-the-way city. And even if IS loses the city in the end, they're going to draw out the battle as long as possible, again to make the West look bad."
 

"I tell ya," Aaron said. "This Selous Scout thing isn't all it's cracked up to be. I signed up for this job to get away from the way wars were traditionally fought, and here I am, struggling on the front lines again. I'm thinking we have to get out of here. It's ridiculously dangerous. You ask me, we should be doing what the Brit's are doing. They drop their SAS teams in eighty klicks from an Islamic State target, drive in on ATVs, execute the target, exfil on their ATVs to the extract location, then get the hell out. That last part is the key.
Get the hell out
. Classic hunter-killer style ops. Like we used to do. Remember those?" He shook his head. "I don't know why Sam ever thought this was a good idea. Place three highly trained operatives in the heart of house-to-house fighting to gather intel? It's insane."
 

"In Sam's defense," William said. "It was my idea to come here."

"Sam's defense?" Aaron said. "She green-lighted your damn idea. She's happy we're here. She didn't want us staying in some backwater city where the intelligence-gathering opportunities were few and far between. She wants us in the heart of the action, where the intelligence comes fast and furious, to better perform those five D's of hers: distend, distort, and disembowel, or whatever."

"We're making a difference in the fighting," William said. "You can't deny it. Though you're right: it's probably about time we absconded."

Ethan spoke up. "Listen, you guys can cross over to the Kurds whenever you want and go home. But I have to stay for at least one rotation on the front. I have to do what I came to do."

Aaron shook his head. "You'll see, my friend. You're all gung-ho now, but when you get out there you'll be wishing you'd listened to your good friend Aaron's advice."

Ethan shrugged. "We all fought in Fallujah. How bad can it be?"

Aaron laughed. "It's bad. At least in Fallujah we had guys fighting by our side we could
trust. Guys who actually understood that all there was standing between them and the enemy were the men in their unit; guys who knew that fucking up could cost not just their own life, but the lives of everybody with them. Here, everyone wants to get themselves blown up. They take stupid risks. Muj are constantly volunteering to open doors they know could be booby-trapped. Rather than taking the time to disarm the door, or to find another way in, they just go right up and kick it down. Then there's the muj who step into the line of fire to lay down suppressive cover. They could stay crouched where they are, but no, they have to stand up, offering their entire body as bait as if it's the bravest thing in the world. All they're doing is reducing their numbers, making it harder for the rest of the unit to survive."
 

Ethan nodded slowly. "Just one rotation."

Aaron sighed. "That's how it's going to be, is it?"

"As I said, you're free to cross over to Kurdish lines whenever you want."

"Easier said than done," William interjected. "Besides, we're not leaving until you do."

"Hey, speak for yourself," Aaron said.

"You should leave," Ethan said, entirely serious. "In fact, I insist you do. The two of you have done enough. It's far too dangerous. Besides, I'm a lone wolf, remember? I can take care of myself."
 

William's eyes glinted like steel. "Never tell me I should leave when one of my brothers is staying behind in the line of fire."

Aaron sighed. "Shit. You and your misguided sense of duty. And I'm talking about the both of you." That was Aaron's way of saying he was staying, too.

Ethan felt he wasn't entirely grasping the gravity of the situation, but he refused to back down. He had to stay for at least one rotation. He wasn't kidding about what he'd said. He had come here to gather intel, and that was what he intended to do.

He heard the roar of a fighter jet overhead, and glanced skyward, but the thick smoke obscured the stars. He wondered why the bombers didn't simply target the fires with their thermal imagers. Then again, with so many blazes out there in the outlying villages, they would have no idea as to the actual location of the camp.
 

"Western jets?" Ethan said. "Or Assad's MiGs?"

"Western," William said, rubbing his eyes in an obvious struggle to stay awake. "Assad's staying out of this one."

"What about Doug, did we ever hear from him?"

"Doug's embedded with the Kurds," William said. "You'll see him online when you deploy your RF antenna in Kobane. We've been getting excellent reception from the rooftops in the city. Aaron and I have been able to communicate up to three miles away. Doug probably has a slightly more powerful transmitter and receiver, of course, so he doesn't have to get too close to the Kurdish front to stay in contact. Or maybe he's placed a few repeaters here and there."
 

"Knowing Doug, he's probably coming right to the front anyway," Ethan said. "You've been able to send him actionable intelligence, right? You said you were making a difference in the fighting."
 

Aaron was the one who answered. "Sometimes the bombers accept the targets we send. Sometimes they don't. Depends on the moods of the pilots, I guess."

"That means yes," William said. "We've sent a ton of actionable intelligence."

"Good. You've been transmitting your own coordinates as no-fire zones, I assume?"

"We have," William agreed. "And so far the B-1B Lancers and whatnot have actually obeyed those. But you never know with the Air Force. They've been known to confuse 'no-fire'
with 'fire.'"